


Sick As A Dog

by Trotzkopf



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fever, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trotzkopf/pseuds/Trotzkopf
Summary: “Vimes, you are, if you pardon the expression, sick as a dog.” Sam glared at the Patrician out of bloodshot eyes. “It’s just a cold, sir.”





	Sick As A Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This story is to be read with the implied understanding that these two have been dancing around for a while. It is not meant to be seen as taking advantage of a sick man but rather genuine concern for someone who feels a great deal of affection for you.

The Patrician did a classic double take when the Commander of the City Watch not so much strode but dragged himself into the Oblong Office. 

“Sahr,” wheezed Vimes. Even his salute managed to appear soggy. 

Vetinari steepled his fingers and frowned. “Sir Samuel, you appear to be ill.”

“No, sir, Just a bit of a-.” The rest of the sentence was drowned in a hacking cough. 

Leaning backward in his chair, Vetinari replied, “Please do everyone a favour, Commander, and take yourself off to bed before you pass on whatever you have to the rest of us.” 

“I’m…fine,” assured Vimes and cursed when his body betrayed him. He sneezed a few times and pulled out a much used hanky. He stared at it in dismay and sniffed to stop himself from dripping onto the floor. 

Taking pity on him, the Patrician opened a desk drawer and pulled out a perfectly folded white cloth with HV stitched into the corner and threw it in the Commander’s direction who, after a brief inner struggle with his pride, took it. He truly looked dreadful. 

“Vimes, you are, if you pardon the expression, sick as a dog.”

Sam glared at the Patrician out of bloodshot eyes. “It’s just a cold, sir.” 

“You are no use to the city in your current condition. Go to bed!” Vetinari ordered calmly. 

Bristling at being treated like a recalcitrant child, Sam grumbled, “No, I’m f-“ Before he could finish, he hit the soft carpet with a thud. 

“You don’t look fine from where I am standing.” 

With a grunt, Vimes rolled over and blinked through streaming eyes at the Patrician who was standing over him. “How the- did you just _kick_ me?” 

“A puppy could defeat you right now. Go home!” 

They glared at each other before Vimes sagged back onto the carpet and shivered. Was the room supposed to be spinning like that? He appeared to be standing on his feet again but someone was supporting his weight for which he was bloody grateful because even walking seemed an insurmountable challenge. Maybe he was a little sick after all. Not that he would admit it, least of all to that bloody Vetinari. Blast, what time was it? Wasn’t he supposed to be at his 11am appointment? 

“Sam?” Someone was whispering to him. He turned his head toward the voice, his forehead pressing into blessedly cool skin. He sighed. “‘is nice.”

“Always making trouble,” the voice sounded equally concerned and fond. It made Sam smile. He liked that voice. 

“…Oh…”

“..not in his state…Lady Sybil…Quirm…”

“…guest room…but, my lord? As you wish.”

*~*

Vimes woke serval hours later when a cool hand touched his face. He pressed into the pleasant sensation before he groggily opened his eyes. To his disappointment, the hand vanished and the stern face of Havelock Vetinari appeared in front of him. 

“Welcome back, Commander.” 

Disorientated, Vimes tried to sit up but barely managed to lift his head before he let himself slump back into the pillow. “What’s going on? And why are you in my-?” He took in his surroundings best he could. Was this his bed? The room was dark, minimal, and sparsely furnished. He knew this place.

“This is not my bed,” Sam remarked while trying to fight the rising panic. 

_\- Vetinari’s bed. I’m in Vetinari’s bed. Why am I in Vetinari’s bed? -_

“You collapsed in the Oblong Office this morning. We took you here because it was the closest room and you needed urgent rest.”

“Ah. Right. …Right. I…I should…” He was suddenly painfully aware that he was naked apart from his underwear. He was about to ask who had taken his clothes off but reminded himself at the last second that he might not want to know the answer. [see end notes] 

“Go back to sleep? Yes, that seems advisable. I’ll send up some food if you feel up to it. I believe chicken soup is traditional under the circumstances.” Vetinari smiled and got out of the chair he had been sitting in. 

Several questions were competing to be asked first -  _What's going on? Why are you doing this? Were you sitting here the whole time?_ \- But all they managed, was to pile up in Sam’s throat and, “Uhm,” came out. 

“I take that as a yes. Rest! Food should be done in an hour.” And then he was gone. 

Sam lay back and stared at the ceiling. Something very strange was happening and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He absentmindedly touched his cheek. 

“Did he-? No. That’s impossible,” Sam chided himself. He had to have imagined it. Sick. Fever. Yeah right. Just a fever.

*~* 

As far as Sam knew, Vetinari only returned the next day to find him fastening the last buckle on his breastplate. They stared at each other for a second before Vetinari flashed one of his lightening fast smiles. 

“I see you’re doing much better. Off home to bed, I hope.” 

Sam cleared his throat and sniffed. “Just checking in at the yard on the way, sir.” 

“Just checking in?”

“Cross my heart and so on. I don’t want to end up-“ Vimes didn’t finish with, “back in your bed”, because that would be weird. Then, why had he thought it? He shook his head. “Thank you for your…hospitality, sir.” 

“Don’t mention it, Commander. And, Vimes, I don’t expect you back before Monday.” 

Sam nodded. “Understood.” 

“Good. Don’t let me detain you!” Vetinari said and sniffed. He walked over to the bedside table and opened a drawer. “Hm.” He closed the drawer and sniffed again. “You’re still here?”

“Going.” Sam said and quickly left. 

Later, he blamed the fever for the heat rising in his cheeks as he walked across the Brass Bridge, his hand darting under his breastplate. It closed around a white piece of cloth, his thumb briefly tracing the stitched initials in the corner.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Sam’s clothes were in fact taken off by some of the servants on the orders of Dr Lawn who had been called to the palace. Vimes only had to ask. ;-)


End file.
